


a murder mystery, please.

by jetjumped



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, F/F, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9902333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetjumped/pseuds/jetjumped
Summary: Spoken stories of sweeping adventure and fantasy; classic literature with its subtleties in language and tone. A bookstore clerk and her regular customer share their love for books.





	1. a love of stories.

She comes in once or twice a week, always making an effort to shut the door quietly although its bell has already signaled her arrival. Fellow customers shouldn’t be tugged so suddenly from the little worlds they had immersed themselves in, no matter how briefly they cast their eyes over the paragraphs in a good book. Most often her hair is tied back in an attractive ponytail, a blonde lock brushed to the side managing to stay just out of her eyes, though sometimes she lets it down.

Fareeha doesn’t know her name, nor have they ever spoken beyond the typical formalities exchanged over the counter. So when she is sorting books at the back of the store, making sure a contemporary author wasn’t mixed in with the sci-fi classics, she doesn’t recognise the voice at first.

“Oh, sorry - could you repeat that?”

The blonde holds a couple books in hand, neither of which, Fareeha notes, is from the top-grossing books section. One by a lesser known japanese author, the other - a classic thriller.

“Do you stock anything by Lacroix?” She asks, smiling, “He writes murder mysteries, if that’s a help.”

“Murder mysteries?” _And have you recently become a parrot, Amari?_ “Ah, right. Lacroix, I know him. Not personally, but - let me find you his section.” Fareeha rushes through the end of her sentence, shoving the misplaced book into the first free slot she can spot.

The store often confused newcomers who weren’t interested in the most recent titles displayed in the window. Proceeding beyond this part in the store, they were confronted by a strange system which placed the store’s oldest acquired books at the back, gradually building up a collection as time progressed. Sprinkled between the books were paper thin maps and tiny antiques that Fareeha would have never recognised if not for her boss, an enthusiastic and by no means mild-mannered man. When not in the loft, pouring over one book after the next, the booming voice he would have kept quiet for hours would be telling those very stories in the pub across the street after the day was up.

Humming to herself as she tries to recall the year Lacroix published his first book, Fareeha runs her fingers over the spine of a journal by H. Shimada. Written in an eloquent though terse tone, the heir to his family’s leading company had made Fareeha remember how disparate people’s lives could be, regardless of the time and distance between them.

Eventually she spots the book, squished between two heavy manuals for omnic construction. Taking it down from the shelf and holding it out for her customer, Fareeha runs through a mental checklist for other books by the same author. She comes up blank.

“It’s the only one we’ve got unfortunately, but if you want I could order some more in.”

“Ah, thank you!” Her face lights up with genuine happiness. “There’s no need to trouble yourself if that’s the case.”

“I’d be more than happy to.”

“If you’re certain?”

“One hundred percent.” Fareeha places a fist on her chest as if swearing an oath, returning the blonde’s smile with a boyish grin.

“Alright then,” she pauses, gaze flicking down before meeting Fareeha’s once more, “Ms. Amari.”

 _How did she -_ Fareeha’s surprise takes hold for half a second too long before she remembers she has a name tag.

“I’m Angela, by the way.” Pausing for a beat, she adds, “I would hate to be unfair.”

“Not at all, I’m happy to be of service.”

It’s another week before Angela returns to the store. As promised, more than one of Lacroix’s books sit behind the counter. She asks the price and Fareeha tells her as much, but where their conversation might have ended two weeks ago does Angela continue speaking.

“It’s a wonderful bookshop you and Herr Reinhardt have here.”

Fareeha couldn’t agree more, “There’s no better place for my uncle’s love of stories, though the Swinging Hammer is a close second.”

Referring to the local pub, she wonders if Angela had tried their Laphroaig 18. Justifying the expense was unheard of for Fareeha, but perhaps Angela - who certainly had a great deal of costly vintage books now in her possession - could afford more than just a glass. But what did Fareeha know. Certainly not what Angela’s profession might have been. One conversation solely about books didn’t shine much light on their lives outside the store.

“Ah, I’ve been meaning to visit it for a while now!”

“I could introduce you to the owner later this evening if you would like?” Fareeha tries not to stare at the counter and dares to look up. She’s not dissuaded by Angela’s blue eyes looking right back at her.

“I would love that.”

They agree on a time and Angela bids her farewell, doorbell jingling as she leaves. Fareeha catches herself before she can hop up and down in excitement, Angela wasn’t the only customer that occupied the shop after all.

It’s still early in the evening when Fareeha steps into the pub, looking no different than she had in the bookstore save for the lack of name tag. Thankfully, she chose today to wear her midnight blue waistcoat to work so when she spots Angela looking very well dressed, she can’t say she’s _too_ underdressed by comparison.

Oh but she _is_ underdressed. Angela’s hair, no longer in its ponytail, sports a natural wave that is brushed over one shoulder. Her eyes seem a little brighter, lashes darker, and Fareeha has to admit she looks great in red.

Angela sits at the quieter end of the bar, managing to concentrate on a book that Fareeha can’t quite make out in the dim lighting from where she stands. Was it one of the murder mysteries she had purchased today? Or perhaps a gothic novella by Vaswani, a fantasy piece by Oxton, maybe even one of Shimada’s introspective journals?

“Mind if I sit?”

Angela looks up, slipping a bookmark back into place and shutting the book. She pats the seat beside her.

Fareeha eases into the stool. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all, Fareeha.” Angela tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking almost sheepish for a moment, “I was finishing up some work actually.”

Holding up the book she had been reading for Fareeha to see, she explains she had been analysing it for an upcoming speech. It was next week, if Fareeha had the time to come visit. She spoke every Wednesday if next week didn’t work out. Fareeha says she looks forward to it.

“Why a bookstore then, if you don’t mind me prying?” Angela asks, halfway through her first tumbler of whiskey.

“It’s mostly Reinhardt and my mother, I loved listening to his stories as a child. My mother had an eye for the little details that made them seem so - real.”

Angela nods as she takes another sip. “Sometimes I wish more of my talks could feature the story over the language, I feel like my audience forgets how moving a piece is when they’re focused on the academics.”

Fareeha orders a couple new glasses for the two of them between replies. “The devices can be so clever, though. They enrich that story, gift wrapping it for the reader.”

“When the author is careful not to overdo it,” Angela points out, thanking her for the fresh glass.

“Exactly.”

They clink glasses and drink quietly for a moment, enjoying the sociable thrum of the pub as the bartender - a stout Swedish man who stood on a stool to reach the counter top - jokes about with his patrons.

A couple drinks later and Fareeha is in the middle of a classic Reinhardt adventure tale, full of knights in gleaming armour and angels who flew down in the heat of battle to heal their wounds. Before she can finish the story, however, the bar table shakes and the once jovial banter further down the bar is now replaced with slurred insults shouted back and forth. Fareeha looks over her companion’s shoulder and slides off her chair to get between Angela and a stumbling drunk just in time.

The man shouts incoherently, shoving at Fareeha’s shoulder which barely moves by a hair. When he tries throwing a punch - probably mistaking her for his previous company, still goading him with insults from the other end of the room - Fareeha side steps it and wrenches his arm painfully out of shape, pushing him away before the fool breaks it himself.

Turning back to Angela, whose expression is one of horror and concern, Fareeha barely notices how the man stirs on the floor where he had ultimately fallen.

“Are you okay? I apologise, maybe I shouldn’t have suggested this place.”

“I - yes, yes - you don’t need to apologise, Fareeha.”

“We can leave, if you would like to.”

Angela looks at Fareeha in a manner she can’t quite place.

“I’m not worried about such things happening again in your company,” she says.

As the grumbling man stands up and returns to his spot amidst his once-again laughing friends, Fareeha rubs the back of her neck. “I’m just glad he didn’t try to have a go at  _ you _ , I would have really broken his arm then.”

Part though not all of Angela agreed with Fareeha on that, but she still rests a hand over the woman’s tense arm. “It’s a good thing you’re so quick on your feet.”

Fareeha starts, not expecting the contact, then shakes her head with a smile.

“So, how did that story end?”

“Oh! Well… ” Sufficiently distracted, Fareeha gladly returns to her narration with new found enthusiasm.

“It takes you to a whole new world, doesn’t it?” Angela comments as Fareeha finishes, imagining that they were not in an urban pub but some medieval tavern, sipping ale from leather wrapped tankards as the story had ended.

“That’s another reason why I like the bookstore, each page takes me somewhere new.”

Angela taps her glass with a fingernail, humming. “I have a question for you.”

“Of course.”

“Is a story owned by the author, or by their readers?”

“Very philosophical, Doctor Ziegler.”

“Oh please, I’m barely halfway through my PhD.”

Fareeha grins, swallowing a mouthful of her drink as she thinks over the question.

“I would say it’s a mix of the two. You can tell a story and have no one to appreciate it, you might as well have strung together meaningless words. But while the readers may appreciate and interpret the language differently, the author’s intention clarifies just what each device adds to the story.”

Angela listens attentively, watching Fareeha over the rim of her glass. “So a story is defined by the variation of interpretation, but also the author’s intentions.”

“That’s my way of thinking about it.”

The soon-to-be-doctor hums, satisfied.

They finish their drinks and talk about little things without further interruption, like Fareeha’s brief display of self defence or Angela’s partiality for murder mysteries. She had once hoped to become a detective, Angela tells Fareeha, who admits she had wanted to do the same.

“To stop criminals and the unjust?” Angela asks.

“Or to save their victims?” Fareeha replies.

"Hopefully I'll do both when I read the Lacroix you procured for me."

Fareeha raises her glass to that.

With spirits a little higher and wallets a little lighter, Fareeha boldly offers to walk Angela home. She doesn’t decline the offer, welcomes it even. The jacket that finds its way around her shoulders is a nice surprise too.

“Are you sure you’re not one of those knights from Reinhardt’s stories?”

“If I was, would you be an angel?” Realising her reply, as smooth as it might have been, Fareeha’s ears grow hot in the cool evening air. Angela only giggles, not lessening her embarrassment at all.

They pause at the door outside the apartment block while Angela fumbles for a business card, fails to find one, and settles for writing her number on the back of a serviette.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday then? Though I may very well visit the store before then.”

Fareeha pockets the serviette.

“If you are not bored of seeing me so often, I would like that.”

Angela squeezes her arm with a promising smile, forgets she still has Fareeha’s jacket, and enters her apartment. Fareeha forgets as well, holding the image of Angela’s smile in mind keeps her warm enough as it is.

It’s not a week but two days before Fareeha hears the doorbell jingle, a blonde ponytail passing under the door frame.  



	2. the best company.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha makes puns, somebody new shows up, Angela just wants to help out.

_Their faces seemed to change before her eyes. The youngest was surely the one who had stuck the knife in Chu, but the oldest must have been the brains of the bunch. Once benevolent eyes now glinted with the cool calculatory nature of a falcon ready to strike and Fareeha knew the game was up._

_Her hand, balled into a tight fist against her thigh, slowly dropped to rest on the handle of her pistol. The other held playing cards close to her chest. A royal flush, hiding her true agenda as much as the rest of theirs._

_The young man glances down briefly, rolling his shoulders with forced nonchalance, and Fareeha counts._

_Three. Two. One._

_The swipe narrowly misses her head, a dark lock of hair comically severed from her fringe. The other men dash from the card table, leaving the room as though they had vanished into the smoke drifting from the ashtray._

_Fareeha pulls the gun from its holster, noting the fear spark in her assailant’s eyes. “I can't believe you brought a knife to a gunfight, Monsieur Kaplan.”_

_The only reply she gets is another jab, this time aimed at the stomach. She jumps back, lazily waving with her pistol in one hand._

_“You're not the one I'm after… mostly.”_

_Kaplan snarls, fingers tensing around the blade. He opens his mouth to speak - but never has the chance. A strangled urk escapes his throat and the criminal crumples to his knees._

_The detective turns, and just in time too for -_

Two fingers obscure the next line, tapping softly at the pages to get her attention.

Fareeha jolts away from the book, nearly shocking Angela herself, eyebrows flying up from their furrowed concentration to surprise.

“Angela! You startled me.”

The blonde wears a fond smile with eyes that sparkle in what Fareeha might consider adoration if she were feeling so bold. Adoration for - Fareeha’s taste in literature, of course. Whatever else could it be? Fareeha doesn’t know.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asks.

“I got lost,” Fareeha admits.

If they hadn’t been regular before, Angela’s visits soon firmly settle into Fareeha’s weekly - if not day to day - schedule. When she wasn’t there to pick up an order or read something new, she would be up in the loft chatting away in German or helping Fareeha catalogue a new antique for the shop’s practically priceless collection. When asked where such oddities came from, Fareeha and Reinhardt would simply say Ana had sent it.

Making note of the page, Fareeha scans the book and hands it over to its new owner.

“Lacroix outdid himself this time, it’s definitely worth the extra months he spent writing.”

“Well, writing doesn’t always come so easily,” Angela says, slotting the book alongside a journal in her bag. Its scuffed edges were testament to her taking it no matter where she went, though its contents still remained a mystery. Fareeha had seen her penning in the occasional remark now and again, but the practice seemed to occur at random and no amount of observation would reveal a connection between the notes.

Perhaps that was because Fareeha ended up glancing at Angela’s hands, or her concentrated gaze, brows slightly drawn together in the middle until Angela noticed the weight of Fareeha’s eyes on her. It didn’t bother her, though perhaps giving talks on a weekly basis with a crowd’s worth of staring made one find it easier.

In fact, it had only been yesterday when Angela had given another speech, this time on a book Fareeha had tentatively suggested she take a look at.

“It’s one of my favourites,” Fareeha had said, earning an immediate nod from Angela who had taken it in her hands and promised to read it that very evening. Fareeha hadn’t expected her to prioritise it over the more academically acclaimed titles literary critics were discussing these days, but she held no doubts when it came to the quality of Angela’s critique.

“I wanted to thank you for your talk, by the way,” Fareeha calls over her shoulder, having moved away from the counter to slot a key into the slowly ticking clock mounted on the wall.

“I should be the one thanking _you_ for attending! I thought you might be overrun with customers since that new _Shrike_ book came out.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Especially since I knew a brilliant speech was being prepared on the other side of town.” Fareeha turns the key as she speaks with a smile, gears and springs finding their rhythm with her words, tugging the ancient clock back to life. “You must let me come to next week’s.”

“Oh, stop.”

Their comfortable back and forth chatter is already well known to Fareeha’s boss. Fareeha knows it too for Reinhardt doesn’t keep his silence any longer as soon as Angela is out the door, leaving the two store clerks to their lunch break.

“So! You and Angela have been getting along, ja?”

“She’s a lovely customer to have round.”

“You never talked so much to customers before she came along!”

Fareeha laughs into her mug of tea, taking a sip before replying.

“They never talked so much to _me_.”

“Believe it or not, Fareeha, crossed arms and that aloof look you have does a good job of keeping the most chatty bookworms away!” Reinhardt folds his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated frown and pursed lips.

Fareeha shoves at his arm, grinning, “I do not look like that! It’s more like…” She crosses her arms, staring off into the distance as she schools her expression into one of trained neutrality before squinting absurdly to match his funny expression.

The doorbell jingles.

“Sorry to interrupt your break but - ah.” Angela stops halfway through the door when she looks up at the loft and covers her mouth.

Fareeha’s ears go hot. Reinhardt embraces the moment.

“Welcome, welcome! We are the protectors of poetry, guardians of literature, let old Reinhardt and Fareeha serve you this fine day!” He strikes a pose and, as silly as the moment is, makes a rather majestic silhouette with the soft glow from the reading lamp behind him.

Fareeha hides her face in her hands, covering up her embarrassment and a smile. She’s down the stairs to greet Angela in the next moment, ever attentive to the needs of a customer and friend.

“How can I help?”

Angela’s expression goes serious.

“Lacroix is in town.”

“What?”

“He’s at a book signing on Queen’s Street. Look,” Angela holds up her phone, a text from someone named Lena reading: _lacroix just got here! come quick luv!!_ The screen changes as another message slides up into view but Angela pockets the device with an apologetic smile before Fareeha can catch what it says.

“Would it be incredibly rude of me to steal you away for half an hour, an hour at most?”

The question seeks Fareeha’s permission in equal measure with Reinhardt’s. When the former doesn’t reply immediately, Reinhardt leans over the loft’s bannister.

“I think I will manage for one afternoon, but do bring her back in one piece, Frau! I would miss having Fareeha’s capable hands around the shop.”

Angela agrees, taking hold of Fareeha’s hand before she can protest. Just like that, the Egyptian is whisked out of the shop with her name tag still attached to her breast pocket.

Queen’s Street isn’t too far from the store, but by the time the two arrive, a sizeable queue streams from the book cafe. People of all sorts stand eagerly, some holding more than one book in the hopes that they would get both signed. Fareeha notes that only Angela holds the newest copy.

A few people ahead of Angela and Fareeha is a girl bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet with just one book in hand. She tries looking over and into the store, no doubt to catch a glimpse of the resident celebrity.

“Lena!”

She turns around, face lighting up when she spots Angela.

“Ange! So glad you made it,” she shouts over the queue, “Great turnout, isn’t it?”

“You’re very good at advertising these events,” Angela replies, her voice carrying with no apparent effort.

“Aw, cheers!” Suddenly, Lena’s voice drops to a stage whisper, “Is that ‘er?”

Fareeha stands a good few inches above most people in the queue, expression indifferent save for the slight quirk of an eyebrow when Angela looks between her and Lena.

Lena’s eyes widen as does her grin - if it hadn’t already seemed impossibly wide - but before she has the chance to say anything further, the queue pushes forward and she disappears behind the cafe doors.

The two of them don’t have to wait too much longer until they manage to enter the cafe and Fareeha has to admire the quirky method employed to clear a little space for the event. Chairs upon chairs sit stacked almost haphazardly on cushy sofas now covering one corner of the room like a grandiose fortress she would have only dreamed of as a child.

She liked this particular cafe. The bartenders were nice enough, they managed to spell her name correctly on a coffee cup too; the music was in good taste, soft jazz to accompany the warm thrum of customers drifting in and out; and the decor included a floor to ceiling bookshelf stocked with the sort of titles seen only in the most niche of bookstores. Just like the one she worked in, Fareeha supposed.

“It looks like Lena’s made it to the front,” Angela says.

“Oh, yeah.”

Fareeha spots the Brit, excitable as ever and chatting away with the author as he signs her copy of _Insurrection_ , the sixth in a series of seven books thus far.

“How do you know each other?” Fareeha asks.

“University. Lena studies animation now, but she attends my talks sometimes.”

“I’m sure we have a few books on that.”

“Trying to get extra business, Fareeha?” Angela says with a teasing smirk.

“Well, I do have the best _company_ these days, Doctor Ziegler,” Fareeha replies, puns mixed in with compliments coming as easily as ever.

When it clicks, Angela laughs softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Again with this doctor nonsense, not that you would take any doctor’s orders seriously!”

“That’s not true.”

Angela gives Fareeha a skeptical look, who adds, “Just yours.”

A chipper voice interrupts them.

“You’ll never guess what!” Lena appears as if out of thin air with her chest puffed out in pride. “Lacroix’s daughter asked for my signature! Can you believe that? She’s bloody stunnin’ too.”

“That’s wonderful, Lena.” Angela’s smile could have beamed for the both of them.

Fareeha - on the other hand - must have looked confused because Lena laughs bashfully and rubs the back of her neck. With a quick explanation and mention of the last name Oxton, Fareeha’s eyes widen as she makes the connection and grasps Lena’s hand in a firm handshake, gushing over how much she had loved each one of her books. Famed author of the _Tracer_ trilogy, Lena explains she wanted to bring more life to her stories - through animating them.

It would seem Fareeha would walk away from this event with not one but two signatures, Lena’s scribbled on the back of yet another serviette - courtesy of the cafe. Back in the store just over an hour later, they have it pinned up alongside the other autographs in an aging frame beside Reinhardt’s writing desk.

“There we are! I must show Ana when she returns. You should meet her too, Frau Ziegler!” Reinhardt says, dusting the edge of the frame.

Fareeha rubs a thumb over the spine of a book she was returning to the shelf, pointedly looking away.

“It would be an absolute pleasure, Herr.” Angela replies, glancing at Fareeha busying herself at the other end of the store. She doesn’t manage to make eye contact.

Excusing herself politely, Angela considers how she might broach the topic. Fareeha’s mother was a touchy subject for the Egyptian, particularly when it came to her visits. They were far and few between.

“Fareeha, about your mother…”

“I’ll let you know if she bothers to show up.”

“I’m sure she wants to.”

“Funny, she’s never picked this over work.”

Angela draws her arms across her chest, not certain if there was any point in continuing.

“You need to talk to her.” _Settle your disputes, whatever they might be. She’s your mother, after all!_

Fareeha laughs dryly, finally turning to face Angela. Cynical words die on her tongue, her expression softening when she catches the worry in Angela’s eyes, a sadness she hadn’t seen there before. Fareeha looks down.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… complicated between her and I,” she offers, “Amaris, we get stubborn.”

Angela reaches for Fareeha’s hand, holding it between both of her own. “Just let me know if I can help. Really. I mean it, Fareeha.”

The Egyptian looks up, meeting Angela’s gaze. She rarely liked accepting help, preferring to be the one lifting the sky rather than let one drop of that burden crumble to another’s shoulders. But Angela could see that. And yet her eyes, always so soft, had a visible confidence to them. They said she didn’t have to fix everything alone, the sky was all theirs to bear.

“Thank you.”

Angela says ‘always’ in the way she wraps her arms around Fareeha. Fareeha who also rarely accepts hugs. It’s a bit of a shock, though standing stock-still and stiff would leave both of them more uncomfortable. She returns the embrace, partly grateful for when Angela pulls away and partly sad when she finds she already misses the lingering scent of coffee and lavender in her hair.

“Let me make it up to you,” Fareeha blurts out.

“Make up for what?”

“My poor attitude, I must have ruined your day.”

“Oh no, don’t be silly… ”

“I insist! And I promise it won’t turn out like last time at the Swinging Hammer.”

Angela smiles, “If I recall, that evening turned out very nicely in the end.”

Fareeha opens her mouth, stopping when she realises Angela wants to continue.

“How about this Friday evening at today’s cafe?”

“That sounds great. Eight thirty?”

“I can’t wait.”

Only after Angela leaves and she’s closed up shop for the night does she allow herself a little cheer, jumping up and punching the air above her.

Then she freezes in place, cheeks going red.

From up in the loft, Reinhardt’s distant chuckling breaks into a warm, hearty laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew so this chapter really didn't follow the initial plan - aside from Lacroix not being Gerard! But I guess the /initial/ initial plan was to leave this whole fic as a one chapter thing so looks like writing's been full of surprises aha. Thanks for the support and hope you enjoyed it :)


	3. escape.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cafe date turns into a mad sprint through a public park in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all too much fluff and too little substance I'm afraid, but the next chapter will have more plot! A writer has to keep their promises after all ;) I do apologise about the wait though, a mix of writer's block and exams has been making each paragraph very stubborn to write, but I hope you enjoy the soft gays

With a clatter, Fareeha’s thick-rimmed reading glasses topple to the floor. The sound sends her reeling from sleep, hair all askew and hands shooting out to find the reading lamp’s on-switch.

It had been some time since the storage room had been cleared. Its dusty cardboard boxes were mostly filled with bundles of bubble wrap and styrofoam pellets that had once protected the most fragile of artefacts or an expensive book from scuffed corners and a cracked spine. Fareeha had decided it was about time they sort out the clutter.

Her efforts were not for naught.

A maroon stained leather satchel lay nestled in the one unopened box tucked away behind all the rest. Written in black marker though smudged and faded with age was a name she sometimes forgot she shared with another. Fareeha scoops it out of the packaging. The weight was a familiar one, but distantly so.

Unclasping the buckles that kept it shut, she lifts out the cool shell of a forty-year-old camera soaked in dust and light scratches that adorn the metal.

Ana’s old camera.

A mix of emotions stir in Fareeha’s gut. Nostalgia, the bittersweet remembrance of a childhood with her mother, so brief but times she had been fond of. Sadness for the days she would go home alone after watching the other children’s parents escort them away from school. The later years of anger and resentment she believed had driven them even further apart. It left an unwanted and bitter taste on her tongue.

Sifting through the satchel’s contents - rolls of film, a broken lens, a dated flash - she pries back the velcro-sealed pocket. A photo, she finds, of herself. She hadn’t all her teeth in this one, the gap-toothed grin she wore was testament to her young age.

_ “Umi, I got my first belt!” Young Fareeha boasted, still dressed in her white gi but with a belt that no longer matched. _

_ “That’s wonderful, habibti, come, let me see.” _

_ “I bet I could beat Uncle Tariq now!” _

_ Ana had only laughed, ruffling her indignant daughter’s hair.  _

_ “Smile for me, Fareeha.” _

_ Click. _

Fareeha slips the photo back into the satchel, pocketing the memory for later. There were others things to worry about. The time, for one. Fareeha glances at the wall mounted clock, hands reading fifteen minutes to the appointed time, and almost trips over herself in her haste to leave the room.

Arriving an embarrassing two minutes late, Fareeha barely has the chance to smooth out her coat before she slides back the cafe’s wood framed door and steps inside.

Queen’s Street’s Meridian Cafe. A fine choice of location for a date, Fareeha has to admit. Certainly better than where they had last met up for this sort of thing. The hum of soft chatter fills the room, mingling easily with a jaunty bossa nova tune. Nonetheless, plenty of the customers listen to their own music as they sit with their knees pulled close to their chest, eyes glued to a good book.

Fareeha finds Angela is one of those people. She sits by the window, the streetlamps outside casting a slant of light over the book she sat reading. She hasn’t dressed up too much this time, yet Fareeha can still appreciate the simple sunflower-yellow scarf. It suited the spring season as much as the sky blue blouse she wore.

Fareeha sneaks up behind her to catch a glimpse of the book, her attempt casting a shadow over the table.

Angela pulls out one of her earbuds, twisting to look over her shoulder. She laughs when her ear bumps into Fareeha’s forearm, a tattoo of the ankh outlined in bold, geometric patterns giving away the Egyptian’s identity.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Fareeha steps around her, seating herself comfortably in the opposite chair. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Angela waves off the apology as she closes the book, replying smoothly, “You’re worth the wait.”

“I, uhm, thanks.”

The blonde giggles then and Fareeha has to try her very best not to go hot in the cheeks. If she already was, she could blame it on the mad sprint between here and the bookstore leaving her in quite the flustered state, but who was she kidding. Early morning jogs, mixed martial arts on the weekend and a weekly bouldering club had left her anything but out of shape. A marathon wouldn’t crumble her iron resolve though a cute laugh just might do it.

“Should I get us something to drink?”

“Oh, no it’s fine, let me,” Fareeha offers, “What would you like?”

“An espresso would be perfect.”

The fact that it was 8:30 in the evening doesn’t seem to phase the Swiss - and neither is Fareeha surprised. Although the deep intellect that Angela couldn’t have kept hidden even if she tried would have made lectures an effortless chore, the dogged persistence she had to discover new knowledge wasn’t something an early night’s sleep often allowed.

Not lingering too long at the cashier, Fareeha quickly pays for Angela’s espresso and one assam black tea for herself, “with mint leaves, please.” She’s back to the table a moment later.

Angela holds out the necessary change for the drink and this time it’s Fareeha’s turn to wave her away. “My treat.”

“You are quite the gentleman.”

Fareeha only smiles as she takes her seat. 

“What were you listening to?”

“Oh,” Angela smiles, absentmindedly tapping the book she had been reading before putting it away. “I don’t really like piña coladas, but Rupert Holmes can certainly write a good song.”

“Do you like getting caught in the rain?” Fareeha asks, not quite singing the lyrics though her smile says she might have.

Angela hums the tune for a couple seconds, “Only with the right sort of company.”

As if on cue, the window is soon dotted by the quiet pattering of raindrops, not a welcome sight for most cafe-goers who had forgotten an umbrella. It doesn’t bother Fareeha nor Angela, though. The two continue chatting away from one topic to the next, moving from music to movies to their meeting with Lena a few days back, the brief hiccup involving Fareeha’s mother all but forgotten.

“Speaking of Lena, she’s invited you and I to a little get together, though I can only imagine it growing wildly out of hand knowing her friends.”

“Oh? You sound like you know from experience.”

Angela laughs, “If I’m being perfectly honest here, the end of  _ that _ night is a blur.”

“I wouldn’t have expected the refined Doctor Ziegler to be such a party animal,” Fareeha teases.

“Well, you can’t blame me when  _ Stayin’ Alive _ comes on. I’ll have little choice but to dance.”

“I’ll slip in a request for the DJ.”

“I hope you’ll dance with me, then.”

Fareeha imagines the both of them striking disco poses and cracks a smile, “Of course.”

It’s only when the barista collects their empty cups, reminding them to stay dry, do they remember the rainy streets outside sitting beneath a cloudy sky now devoid of stars. Only a few people splashed to and fro, likely heading home from work as the week slowly drew to a close.

A car trundles past, its wheels hissing in the puddles.

“We close in 10 minutes, but please take your time,” adds the barista politely before returning to wipe down the countertop.

Angela thanks them with a nod and smile, looking to Fareeha expectantly. Clearly, their night wasn’t over and Fareeha is grateful for it. She leads Angela to the doorway, waving the barista farewell before hesitating as her first step outside is accompanied by a splash.

Shrugging off her coat, Fareeha holds it out over the both of them as a makeshift umbrella, her eyes shining an unsaid apology for the weather. Angela doesn’t care, and says so in the way she steps closer, one hand tugging Fareeha’s back down.

“You’ll catch a cold.”

Fareeha lowers the coat, but instead of putting it back on, wraps the two of them in the thick fabric.

“So will you.”

Angela starts and opens her mouth as if she is about to retort. Then, she pulls her lips tight and looks down at the puddles. Fareeha worries it must be the sudden familiarity, ready to stammer an apology before Angela rests her head against Fareeha’s shoulder.

“It’s not so bad getting caught in the rain with you.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re warm, like a hot water bottle.”

Fareeha laughs, not knowing where they were headed but knowing she hadn’t been able to smile through the dripping hair in her eyes and wet socks until now.

“I suppose it’s better than being filled with hot air.”

“False talk, hm? Well, you haven’t swept me away on horseback just yet, oh dashing knight,” Angela’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she looks up at Fareeha, giggling at the expression of mock indignancy that she pulls in response.

Fareeha opens the gates to a park bordered by broad oaks and sturdy chestnuts. “If you wanted me to sweep you off your feet, you only needed to ask.”

Before Angela can ask what she means by that, Fareeha smirks and hooks an arm behind her knees, hoisting her into her arms.

“Fareeha!” she shrieks, nearly catching Fareeha’s face with a flailing hand. And that’s before Fareeha starts dashing through the park, her laughter loud and warm in chorus with Angela’s who wraps her arms tightly around Fareeha’s neck.

Each footstep is firm so as not to slip and each one is as aimless as the last. A silly sprint Fareeha wouldn’t have been caught dead running if anyone had been around to - no, if it had been anyone else by her side. She lets her guard down here, in the dark of night and the bliss of Angela’s smile. The serene hiss of rain against the leaves, the distant twinkling of apartment lights.

“Fareeha!” Angela repeats, this time between bursts of laughter, “please… Put me down.”

Fareeha slows beside an oak, gently setting Angela back on her feet.

“I think you’ve been reading too many stories about knights, Fareeha.”

“Impossible.”

“I wasn’t complaining, by the way. That was… fun.” Once again, Angela looks down, and Fareeha notes the way her lips purse indicating something less than pleasant.

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, I just - ” Angela looks back at her, hesitant, “Please don’t worry about it.” She offers a smile although her eyes still give away the fact that there’s something else.

Fareeha knows it’s best not to pry and push, Angela’s business was her own and if she didn’t want to share it with Fareeha, she shouldn't force it. That doesn’t lessen her concern though, and her brow still furrows, unsure if she had been part of the issue.

Reaching out for Angela’s hand with both her own, she squeezes it encouragingly and asks nothing more. “I’m here, if you need me.”

A crack splits the sky in two for a fraction of a second, roaring into being with a thunderous growl before it ceases just as fast.

They hold hands a little tighter and Angela lets herself find comfort in the strong gaze of the Egyptian’s. It wasn’t the lightning that bothered her, but getting caught in a storm was only so tolerable.

“I’ll get us some place dry, it’s not too far from here.”

Angela lets Fareeha lead without question, finding the coat itself no longer proved strong enough to withstand the wind and rain. Thankfully, it really wasn’t a long walk until the pair reach a rather ordinary looking house. The streets were quiet now, save for the rain and jingling of keys that Fareeha pulls from her coat pocket.

Once inside, Fareeha closes the door softly behind them.

“Wouldn’t want to wake my neighbours,” she explains, starting up the stairs to the first floor flats.

“Your - oh.”

It made sense that the closest place promising warmth and perhaps a towel to dry her dripping hair was Fareeha’s apartment. Angela’s was out of the question, remaining at least an hour’s walk in the opposite direction, and most shops had closed by now. Still, the realisation surprised her. It was a good surprise. It meant she was no longer privy to one more corner of Fareeha’s rather mysterious life.

Fareeha’s flat looks much like what Angela expected at first glance. Bookshelves aplenty line the walls, of course. As do maps, much like the ones in the store. But photographs, all black and white in their soulful expression, surround a writing desk. Each one was framed and dated.

“I didn’t realise you were a photographer, too.”

Fareeha is halfway across the room when she turns around to see Angela gesturing at the photos.

“Ah, I dabble, but those aren’t mine. They’re my mother’s. One moment.”

Dipping into the next room, Fareeha returns a moment later with a towel for Angela.

“You weren’t lying when you said she had an eye for detail, these are amazing.”

“This was her first trip abroad,” Fareeha says, gesturing to a photo in the middle detailing distant mountain peaks across an immense tundra, “Before my mother had me, she backpacked through much of the East. Tibet, before the Valley of Nine Villages. You can see the yak herd,” she points, “there.”

“Have you been?”

“No, but she told me stories.”

“Tell me one?”

“After we get you warmed up.”

Maybe it was because Angela still shivered, even when wrapped in a towel, or the sniffling that threatened to give way to a sneeze sooner than later. Fareeha, in any case, thought she better offer more in the way of dry clothes and warm tea.

It’s not long after that they both sit on the sofa, Angela in a hoodie far too big but by no means uncomfortable. She cradles a mug of camomile, listening to Fareeha’s rich voice spin tales. She speaks curiously of the uniquely salty taste of Tibetan butter tea, reverence in her voice when she speaks of a woman spinning her prayer wheels the morning before her daughter’s birthday, and joy in the dancing that followed that evening.

“Their outfits were beautiful colours, always adorned with red and gold. For luck.”

Angela’s head falls to rest against Fareeha’s shoulder once again. Completely exhausted after a day spent working, most likely. Fareeha’s voice lulls her to sleep, and soon enough finds an end to its tale, growing quiet as she too grows weary.

“Sleep well, hayati,” Fareeha murmurs, glancing outside one last time before shutting her eyes. Only a soft rain dotted the flowers dancing outside her window, a gentle breeze tousling their petals.


	4. treasures.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fareeha tries making pancakes, the result of which is less satisfying than an afternoon's conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was fluff, this chapter is bonding!!! Aka gratuitously exploring mother-daughter relationships oops... The party with plenty of new faces will be in the next chapter, but in the meantime, hope you enjoy! (apologies for any errors/poor writing, I wrote most of this at 3am in a rush >< )

Fareeha wakes to a crown of blonde beneath her chin from where Angela had ended up lying with her back pressed to Fareeha’s chest. Her hair smelled faintly of a lavender scented shampoo, not like the citrus and spice Fareeha preferred, but it suited the studious Swiss very much. Just the right sort of calming fragrance to keep away the distant yet ever present fog of stress hanging in clouds at the back of one’s mind.  _ Wouldn’t have been able to tell with her now,  _ Fareeha thinks, unknowingly cracking a soft smile as she watches Angela breathe deep and slow. 

Twisting her head, though only just enough to view the clock, Fareeha contemplates shutting her eyes for another ten minutes then thinks better of it. It wasn’t Sunday, after all. Both of them had responsibilities and those responsibilities had to be tackled within the coming hour. A shame for, she had to admit, lazing around for just one day  _ was _ a pleasant idea.

It’s Angela that sits up first, stirring without prompt from Fareeha who had been torn between nudging her elbow and simply waiting it out. The latter had been winning, evidently.

“Morning, Doctor.”

“Guete Morge,” Angela mumbles in reply, checking her wrist for the time before swearing rather abruptly in German.

“Work?” Fareeha assumes, making to stand.

Angela grumbles an affirmative, stretching her arms out above her before pinching the hem of her large hoodie. “I can’t steal this away to my lectures, unfortunately.”

“Ah, right. Your clothes are hanging up in my room.” Fareeha nudges open the door with her foot, drifting over to the other side of the room to open the fridge. “How much longer can you stay?” 

“Not long I’m afraid,” Angela springs up from the sofa, “It starts at ten.”

“I’ll give you a ride. Plenty of time for breakfast this way.”

“Oh, you don’t have to! I’d hate to be an inconvenience,” she calls out from Fareeha’s room, hoodie sorely abandoned to the coathanger in exchange for the no longer sopping blouse from yesterday’s shenanigans.

Fareeha snorts, “Nonsense. I’d feel like an awful host if I didn’t offer you breakfast, anyway.”

“You’re too kind.”

“The shower is just through there.”

Angela smiles, shaking her head as she shuts the bathroom behind her, finally out of earshot. “Verdammt. Ms Fareeha Amari, what am I to do with you.”

In the quick fifteen minutes it takes for Angela to shower, Fareeha expertly prepares a wholesome meal of what  _ would _ have been cereal and milk if she had been alone. Instead, she pours two glasses of orange juice, flicks on the coffee machine and heats up a pan with one slice of butter. 

The ensuing pancakes are a mess.

Angela steps into the living room with her hands full, vigorously towel drying her hair that she throws forward so it forms a curtain around her face. Curtains dripping wet from a night with the wind blowing raindrops through the window.

“That smells…”

“Great?” Fareeha finishes wryly, fanning smoke from the last burnt pancake out the window.

Angela brushes her hair back with a hand, finally managing to get a look at what had become of the kitchen. She can’t help but laugh, especially when she catches sight of Fareeha’s embarrassed expression barely hidden beneath forced nonchalance. 

“You’re sweet for having tried.”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Fareeha sighs, switching off the stove and reopening the fridge. “But first: coffee, juice; whichever you’d like.”

“Coffee, please.”

If there was one thing Fareeha could make, it was a good cup of coffee. Tea had always been an Amari thing, but sometimes she needed something with a stronger kick to help burn the midnight oil.

“On the plus side, I have backup.”

“Oh?”

Fareeha spins round to reveal a plate with half a chocolate cake sat squarely in the middle. Angela grins.

“That... is gorgeous.”

“I didn’t realise I was holding a mirror,” Fareeha replies with little effort, placing the plate on the countertop to cut them both a slice.

“What if I wasn’t talking about the cake,” comes Angela’s reply as she moves closer, resting with her hip against the kitchen counter.

“Then I’d say your flattery earns you more than one slice.” Fareeha dishes out a second, sliding her plate over.

Angela thanks her, checking the time once again before scooping a generous forkful into her mouth. Not giving herself enough time to chew it through before remarking on its fantastic flavour, Fareeha’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she regards her efforts.

They finish the cake in near silence sat by the window, finding it easily comfortable in one another’s presence. Angela’s eyes still roaming over Fareeha’s living space, spotting new details revealed in the light of day that hadn’t been so clear last night. A thin envelope on the floor by the door catches her eye.

“It seems you have mail, Schätzli.”

Fareeha goes to pick up the post and Angela notes the way her nose scrunches slightly when her eyes dip to the foreign stamps dominating one corner of the envelope. Overseas mail? Who would be - ah, Angela realises. A big time traveller with a camera in hand, sending her daughter the negatives of wherever she had headed most recently. She doesn’t comment any further, especially when Fareeha places the envelope alongside her books on the desk and resumes her place beside Angela on the sofa.

Fareeha must have noticed Angela’s increasing concern for the strained relationship. It was only so long before that would give way to frustration, she imagines. As patient as the saintly Swiss was, Fareeha hated being a cause for concern. She makes a decision, then, swallowing her last mouthful of cake.

“I’m going to talk to her.”

Angela doesn’t need to ask whom Fareeha spoke of. She simply nods, unconsciously smiling in relief.

“Call me when you’re done?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” With each word, Fareeha grows more confident in her choice. It would be this afternoon, a few hours before Lena’s party started. If it went horribly, perhaps she could rely on Lena and Angela to cheer her up. If not - well, that was certainly a reason to celebrate, wasn’t it? One step in the right direction to patching up the gaps left after years apart. She tries not to think about whose fault that was. 

After a pause, Angela pats her on the knee and speaks up, reminding her that they ought to get going.

Fareeha still manages to arrive early even after dropping off Angela outside the lecture theater. She flips the store sign round to invite in the first morning customers and readjusts the stack of  _ Shrike _ books in the window. Kicking her feet up on the counter, she opens the newest copy to the first page.

Her reverie is broken at only twenty pages in. The doorbell jingles as it would for any other customer, footsteps approaching the register with a question or a very efficient purchase. Fareeha closes the book, readying her standard greeting of “how may I help?” before she catches sight of the deep blue hijab framing a soft smile and golden eyes. The words stick in her throat.

“Hello, Fareeha.”

Fareeha stands up, arms stiff by her side before busying themselves with clearing away papers on the counter.

“Hello mother.”

If this was a visit like any before, Ana wouldn’t be staying long. Long enough to greet Fareeha and Reinhardt, drop off a parcel that was as much a gift as it was unspoken apology, then be off to her next flight. Her phone buzzes - a colleague from work, probably. She must be in a rush.

“Reinhardt is upstairs,” Fareeha turns away to place her book back on the shelf.

“I’ll speak to him later.”

_ You have time to wait around? _ Fareeha thinks.  _ Ridiculous. _

“You ought to know first.” It’s not like Ana Amari of all people to hesitate as she does then. “I’m back, Fareeha.”

Did she want Fareeha to be grateful? Fareeha bites her tongue to avoid the scathing remark. “Why now?” She asks instead, not catching the look of hurt that crosses her mother’s face behind her.

“I’m growing old, habibti. My own daughter stands before me with a hidden plethora of stories waiting to be told while I run dry for ideas.” And then, in Arabic, “When a story reaches its end, you shouldn’t pretend it is otherwise.”

“In other words, you got bored,” Fareeha says, and when there is no reply, faces her mother.

Ana can’t hold the eye contact for long. She searches for the right words to say but knows a simple apology can’t give back the years they had spent apart. Neither wanted to cause a scene, however. A trio of students enters the store, laughing about something or another in that raucous manner of youths who still think the world revolves around them.

Glancing at the loft, Fareeha opens her mouth to suggest talking to Reinhardt but remembers her promise from earlier. Why did she have to wait for Ana to take the first step to make amends? Putting the thought from her mind - as Ana had at least broached the subject - she closes her eyes and breathes out through her nose.

“I just need time,” she softens her tone, “I have to get my customers sorted, but we can talk over my break in an hour.”

Acquiescing, Ana heads upstairs, giving the two of them some time to work out how best to talk in a civil manner.

Fareeha flicks on her phone and taps out a quick message to Angela. It’s not long before she gets a reply.

**Fareeha:** _ Wish me luck…  _

**Angela:** _ I’m sure you don’t need it. You have my support :-)  _

**Fareeha:** _ Thanks, Doctor. _

The hour passes quickly. Swallowing her pride and no small amount of nervous energy, Fareeha makes her way up to the loft. Her shoulders are stiff and she has to try her best not to look so aloof, but for once, there’s a sliver of hope to be found amidst the quiet laughter drifting from where Reinhardt and Ana must be seated.

“You went back to the village? Well? What was it like? Don’t miss out any details!”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, hayati.”

Fareeha takes care not to interrupt their conversation, silently retrieving the maroon satchel from her desk then tugging a chair over to the small table that the others sat around.

“It was her daughter’s eighteenth birthday, the last before she would go further east to continue her studies.” Ana stirs her tea while speaking, first clockwise, then anticlockwise. “Nine years ago, such an event held nothing but joy and respect, but this time it was bittersweet. Her mother shed tears with a smile, speaking words I still cannot quite understand, but it was clear they were words of love.”

Reinhardt, enthusiastic as ever, is leaning forward in his chair, eyes wide. “Beautiful! Can I see the pictures?”

“Dear, dear, do you need to ask after all these years?” 

Fareeha leans back, placing the satchel on her lap while her mother spreads the monochrome prints across the table. As the years had passed, Ana had picked up a newer camera model, favouring the sharper images and greater durability it offered. That must have been why her very first camera had been neglected.

As always, the photos were fantastic. Plenty of inspiration for the books she wrote while travelling, though if Ana’s words were true, it was no longer enough to keep the ideas fresh. 

“This is my favourite,” Ana points to a photo of a young girl with the widest grin Fareeha had seen in a while holding a ribbon bound scroll, “it reminds me of you somehow, habibti.”

As far as appearances went, Fareeha couldn’t see the resemblance. She didn’t grin so eagerly for photos these days, and hadn’t worn a dress as if it was second nature. And yet, the innocent joy she would have thought belonged long ago in her childhood was clear for all to see in this picture.

Fishing for the print she had tucked away in the satchel, she places it beside the one on the table.

“I found this,” Fareeha says.

Ana reaches out, slowly as if she can’t quite believe the old photograph still exists. She smiles softly, the fine laugh lines around her eyes crinkling.

“Thank you,” she replies, and that is enough.

Ana’s reasons for returning become clearer through the two words. It was too easy denying the sorrow one felt at leaving family behind in favour of feasting their eyes on all the worldly experiences travelling had to offer. It could be overwhelming, and with each passing year, it became harder to face the pain missing someone you love provided. They had grown used to a life without each other as a constant. It wasn’t ideal, but it was life.

Or so they would tell themselves - until now. Life could be better than that, life could change. As such, Ana didn’t know when she would run out of time to spend with her only daughter. Treasuring time spent with Fareeha was worth far more than time spent with foreign treasures.

“It’s good to see you again, umi." 

Fareeha slings the satchel over her shoulder and pats Ana on the shoulder as she makes to leave, leaving the photo on the table for her to keep. She had a call to make, and soon enough, a party that called for celebration.


	5. two left feet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela and Fareeha reminisce over champagne and disco tunes during Lena's "little" get together before things fall a little out of hand in the best of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for plenty late-night-imagined silly headcanons and I hope you enjoy!

A slender figure dressed entirely in the type of clothing Fareeha could never see herself affording holds centre stage in the living room. Everyone listens, rapt, though her expression indicates she would rather be anything but the main event. And she isn’t, really. She wasn’t supposed to be, as far as Fareeha is concerned. Though if Lena was going to be Lena, everyone would hear just how “bloody brilliant” this Amélie was.

Amélie directs films, she finds out. Like her father, they tend towards darker themes with clever plots and sneaky twists, confounding the audience until the very last moment. Lena had tried to insist upon screening one in the lounge, yet Amélie had been quick to point out that it would probably spoil the jovial mood.

“So, when did you two meet?” Angela asks, standing by Fareeha’s side. Lena could have very easily asked them the same question.

“The book signing! Amélie was helping out when I got Lacroix to sign  _ Insurrection _ ,” Lena explains, taking a generous mouthful from her own cup, “We got talkin’ about films and I got ‘er to show me one of hers! They’re amazing, really Ange, you’ve absolutely  _ got _ to watch them.”

“I’d love to,” Fareeha hears Angela’s reply, the rest of their conversation lost as she steps away to the refreshments.

It’s a miracle nobody has knocked over the stack of champagne glasses, arranged so that the champagne could cascade down the side of the glasses at the top like a fountain. Fareeha assumes Lena would be popping a bottle of the stuff a little later.

Taking two empty cups to fill with fruit punch, she’s just about to pick up the ladle when a hand reaches over and beats her to it.

“Ah, pardon,” comes the voice, a heavy French accent lacing her words, “I’m doing all I can to get away from  _ that _ .” She must be referring to Lena’s audience.

“You must be Miss Lacroix then.”

She hums an affirmative, handing Fareeha the ladle. “Amélie will do. And you are?”

“Fareeha Amari.”

“A pleasure.” Amélie takes a sip from her cup before making a face at the flavour, “Ngh, too sweet.”

“The fruit punch, or Lena?” Fareeha jokes loosely, filling her own cup.

“Both.” Another sip, another grimace.

“I’m surprised that glare of yours doesn’t scare off half the crowd.”

“It would if only Lena wasn’t impervious to it.” Amélie places her cup back on the counter, arms crossing across her chest. “She’s incorrigible.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Taking a sip, Fareeha has to agree the punch was rather sweet, but not unpleasantly so. “She’s definitely persistent, I’ll give you that.”

For a while, the two stand watching Lena and Angela speak among the other guests, easily navigating the social space while the two of them fall into silence. Angela had been able to look past Fareeha’s aloof demeanor. Perhaps Lena’s alacrity made it easier to do the same with Amélie.

“I should bring this over,” Fareeha says eventually, gesturing with Angela’s cup of fruit punch.

Amélie nods curtly and gives her a little wave of farewell, seeming content to remain unbothered stood by the drinks.

Apologising for how long it had taken to retrieve the punch, Angela’s smile lets Fareeha know it was no trouble.

“Lena was just about to pop the champagne, actually,” Angela says, shooting the animator a knowing look.

“Oh, yeah! I’ll be right back!” And just like that, she’s off to collect a bottle of Dom Perignon - Angela mentions that it must be a special event to deserve such a brand. Lena hadn’t revealed the exact reason just yet, however.

Resting a hand on Fareeha’s forearm, she asks, “Are you alright?”

“Very much so, but how are you?”

“Mm,” Angela takes a sip, “I already feel myself relaxing with you here.”

Fareeha’s eyebrows raise in concern as the two of them navigate their way through the crowd to find a better view of the champagne fountain. “Were you stressed?”

“I’m a lot better today,” Angela admits, “But let’s enjoy tonight for what it is.”

Taking Angela’s hand in her own, Fareeha seems hesitant to accept the proposal, and so Angela continues reassuringly, “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, I promise it’s nothing that can’t wait.”

“... So long as you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Once again, Lena’s shouting interrupts their conversation. “Oi, everyone! Listen up!” Standing on a chair beside the table, Lena waves about a champagne bottle in each hand. “Today, we’re celebrating not only Amé’s film award, but also…” Lena hops off the chair, dashing over to where Fareeha and Angela stood.

“Ange’s birthday! Surprise, love!”

Confetti streams from party poppers and the bottle corks go flying with a spray of champagne. Angela hides her face while Fareeha looks aghast.

_ Angela’s birthday?! Today? How did you not know! _

A glass of champagne is thrust into her free hand as Fareeha nearly chokes on the rest of her fruit punch in surprise. She glances at Angela who looks equally speechless when they make eye contact.

“I didn’t want to -” Angela starts.

“I would have done something special!”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, really…”

“But it’s your birthday,” Fareeha continues, her voice cracking towards the end of her sentence, “I can’t believe I never asked when it was.”

“Fareeha.  _ Fareeha. _ ” Angela places a hand on Fareeha’s cheek, “You’ve already made today special.”

Fareeha has no idea what she’s done to make this day any different from the rest, yet rather than despairing, she vows to make the rest of this night something to remember.

“Still.”

“Still?”

Raising her glass of champagne to clink with Angela’s, she offers the most winning smile she can muster despite the anxiety that welled up within her.

“I’ll put my all into making tonight even better.”

“Well then, I’m curious to see what you come up with.”

Angela’s eyes glint with something Fareeha dares to recognise, an implication cemented by the mischievous curve of her lips pressed to the rim of the champagne glass.

Fareeha’s ears burn as Angela knocks back half the glass with ease. She takes a smaller sip, a rush of ideas hitting her all at once. Half of them were as much to blame for the heat in her cheeks as the alcohol.

The first step to improving Angela’s night becomes obvious when the music is turned back up. Immediately one of Lena’s guests leaps out into the centre of the room, gyrating and twisting as if he was born to it, the music and rhythm pumping through his body. Lena joins him with her own jaunty footwork, encouraging the rest of the room to graduate from tapping their feet to bobbing and swinging to the beat of the music.

Angela holds her arms tight against her chest as she watches the crowd grow more enthusiastic. Exhaling through her nose, which scrunches the slightest bit - a tiny gesture Fareeha has grown to notice when Angela finds something mildly irksome - she finishes her glass of champagne quickly, a nail tapping against the glass to the slow beat.

Fareeha looks between the blonde and the other guests.

“You’re allowed to dance at your own birthday party, you know.”

“Oh - yes, I know,” Angela fiddles with the stem of her champagne glass, “I barely recognise this music, though.”

“Then, dance with me.” Fareeha takes the nearly finished champagne from Angela and places both glasses on an empty table. Stepping forward, she holds a hand out for Angela to take. “If it’s any reassurance, you’ll find there’s always someone with a worse case of two left feet when I’m around.”

It’s just their luck when the music transitions to a familiar disco tune. Angela’s eyes light up making Fareeha smile helplessly in adoration. With Fareeha’s lopsided grin and the memory of her promise from the cafe just yesterday, Angela can’t say no.

She takes Fareeha’s hand. Fareeha steps back, further into the crowd, and Angela follows.

They sway and step until the first lyrics hit and then Angela finds herself clapping and spinning without much thought, Fareeha easily twirling her back and forth in perfect time. Even as the songs change and shift between old and new eras, Angela’s smile doesn’t fade and she forgets whatever embarrassment she might have anticipated earlier.

Fareeha had that effect on her, sometimes. Other times, when Fareeha was being particularly charming, Angela would have to make a conscious effort to keep her cool.

The DJ must have somehow accessed her personal playlist for they don't miss a single one of Angela's favourite songs - and, if she were to be correct in assuming, neither do they miss a single one of Amélie's. Lena has somehow convinced the French director to join them on the dance floor and neither Fareeha nor Angela can blame people for staring.

Amélie dances beautifully when the music is right, possessing the poise of a ballet dancer even when it wasn't. She holds herself so differently from Lena, yet Angela can see how the two drift closer before darting apart as if performing a fleeting act of two birds alighting on the same branch.

"Fareeha?"

"Angela."

“I’m very happy that I was unable to find that book by Monsieur Lacroix that day.”

“ _ I’m _ very happy that I was able to be of service,” Fareeha replies, bowing with a flourish before raising one of Angela’s hands to her lips, barely grazing the knuckles with a kiss.

Angela’s throat goes dry, but instead of stuttering out a reply, she settles for laughing. It sounds as flustered as she feels - not quite the desired effect.

Fareeha barely notices, she’s much too caught up enjoying the sound of Angela’s laughter. She was very fond of it, she decides. Fond enough that she wanted to be the source of Angela’s laughter and happiness for every night after this.

As the evening continues, there is little evidence suggesting a shortage in such things. With every glass of champagne did Fareeha grow ever more charming, finding it easier to tease a smile from the Swiss as they danced and mingled among Lena’s guests. Angela eases a few warm laughs from the Egyptian in turn and doesn’t try to hide her glee when Fareeha responds with the worst of puns.

“I’ll be back in a Prosecco,” Fareeha says at one point, earning an exasperated groan from the guests nearby but an amused giggle from Angela.

Shutting the bathroom door behind her, Fareeha twists on the tap water to give her face a splash. Sighing through a smile, she looks up at the mirror, expression twisting into one of shock when she notices what’s behind her.

In the corner of the room are two of Lena’s guests caught in a rather… intimate moment. Fareeha is just about to leave them in peace when she recognises the shorter man pressed against the wall is none other than acclaimed author: Hanzo Shimada. And the other man - Fareeha would have gaped if she wasn’t in the process of making her timely escape.  _ Lena certainly knows how to network, _ she thinks, but how the Brit knew Fareeha’s old family friend, Jesse “McCree” Reyes, was a mystery.

Fareeha is greeted by another familiar face on her way back to Angela. Aleks - a workout buddy from the local gym - pats her on the back as she passes with almost enough force to knock Fareeha off her feet and insists they have to share a drink. Fareeha doesn’t have the chance to politely decline before the Russian strides off to the bar. A woman on a mission that could not be dissuaded, Fareeha decides.

Fareeha hears Angela before she sees her. Standing atop the living room’s coffee table with two booming speakers behind her, she’s clearly had more to drink since Fareeha stepped away. Jaw dropping, Fareeha stands stock still as the blonde sings, having procured a microphone from a karaoke set Fareeha hadn’t known existed. Aleks returns only to elbow her in the side with a knowing grin and words of encouragement that Fareeha barely hears. Lena and the crowd whoop and cheer for Angela, even as she steps off the table and reaches Fareeha in three steps.

She was singing that song about pina coladas, and rather well, Fareeha thought, all things considered. She doesn’t realise her mouth still hung open before Angela lifts her chin with a finger and winks.

“Come with me, and escape,” Angela finishes, hitting the notes of an improvised riff on the last word.

Fareeha breaks into a smile, full of affection for this woman whom she learnt more about with each passing day. “Come here, ya amar,” she says, heard by no one else but Angela beneath the applause the performance garners.

Tossing the microphone over her shoulder, Angela wraps her arms around Fareeha and lets her head fall to rest against the taller woman’s chest. Fareeha holds her close, her laughter warm against the Swiss’ ear. She realises in that moment how obvious it was to anyone that they adored one another.

Across the room, they would find each other, whether their staring was intentional or not. Fareeha knew she would do anything, or be anything, if it meant seeing Angela smile. Angela had never met someone so selfless and considerate, and knew she would be there to support Fareeha even when the work she loved more than life beckoned. It was, however, becoming harder to ignore how badly she wanted to know what the stark black ink beneath Fareeha's eye felt like with her thumb resting there just so. Harder to ignore how badly Fareeha wanted to feel how soft Angela's hair was, released from its ponytail as it was now. If not tonight then soon, one of them would surely give in.

"I haven't had a birthday this pleasant in a long time, so... thank you," Angela says.

Fareeha doesn't say anything at first, she only smiles and cups Angela's face with both hands before kissing her forehead. 

"An angel deserves an infinite number of pleasant birthdays."

With a shred of her fleeting sobriety, Angela realises it probably isn’t the smartest of moves getting drunk around Fareeha like this. If her cheeks hadn’t been flushed pink from the drinks, the compliments would certainly have done it. Her resolve was tested enough while sober. It would be too easy taking that leap of faith, hoping Fareeha would respond in kind.

And had Fareeha ever indicated she might act differently? Angela thinks not.

Pondering this train of thought means Angela forgets to reply, and instead, she spends a great deal of time simply looking into Fareeha’s eyes.

“Angela? Hayati.” Fareeha gently squeezes her shoulders, tilting her head in concern, “You look a little lost there.”

Angela blinks then laughs softly.

“Just lost in your eyes, Fareeha.”

“I can’t believe this, what have my cheesy pickup lines done?” Fareeha exclaims, placing a hand on her chest as her eyebrows fly up in mock horror.

“I think you’ve absolutely ruined me,” she replies, resting a hand on Fareeha’s, “I think…”

“Mm?”

Angela procures another glass of champagne from thin air and takes a final sip, muttering in German, “I think you’re far too good looking.”

Fareeha only laughs, uncomprehending. “You think you’re home and want to go drunk?”

“Bitte.”

Shaking her head, Fareeha wraps her arms around Angela once more and carries her away from the party. Angela only giggles, waving farewell to Lena and Aleks over Fareeha’s shoulder - the two of them both shooting the not-yet-couple finger guns as they step out the door and into the taxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to end this chapter without a kiss - Fareeha wouldn’t take advantage of drunk Ange like that! - but if anyone’s interested, Angela did the hustle and it was great. The slow burn is getting somewhere, I promise!! There’s only one or two more chapters left so thanks for stickin' with me this far~


	6. sunflower-yellow scarf.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela copes.

What had she done.

She’s facing away from the window, unable to move for one of Fareeha’s arms is thrown across her waist effectively keeping her a prisoner of the bed. Screwing her eyes shut, Angela presses her palms against them and attempts to recall the events of last night, frowning and muttering as she does so.

Most memories are clear until the popping of champagne and everything after that passes in a hazy blur. She recalls singing, she recalls Fareeha’s hands, she recalls a taxi.

_ “Fareeha,” Angela draws out the last syllable of her name, “You finally took my advice.” _

_ “Did I? You must be mistaken. Doctor’s orders: Never!” _

_ “Yes, we’re  _ escaping _! Just like Holmes said. Rupert Holmes, you know? The…” she had paused, adjusting herself so that she lay across Fareeha’s lap in the back seat of the cab, “That pina colada thing.” _

_ Fareeha smiles and shakes her head, smoothing the flyaway strands of blonde hair as Angela looks up at her. _

_ “Spending time with you is enough to leave the world behind.” _

_ The taxi suddenly bumps up and down, clipping the curb while the driver narrowly avoids a stray cat. Angela almost rolls off Fareeha’s lap, beyond the seat, and would have certainly done so if Fareeha hadn’t been quick to gather Angela up in her arms. _

_ “Rescued again.” _

_ Fareeha helps Angela back into her seat, even if it involves the blonde looping her arms around the Egyptian’s waist and snuggling into the curve of her neck. _

Angela doesn’t remember much more beyond that. The events that followed between exiting the taxi and ending up here, in Fareeha’s bed of all places, were unbeknownst to her. She could only hope she hadn’t done anything  _ too _ forward, lest Fareeha be put off.

“Hayati,” comes a low rumble from Fareeha, still half asleep and with no intentions of getting up anytime soon.

Angela must have moved. She decides she might as well roll out of bed, having already disturbed the Egyptian, though even in her semi-conscious state is Fareeha able to loosely grasp at her wrist and ask her to stay.

“Schatzli, I really should - ”

“Ange.”

Angela spots a brown eye peeking out from beneath messy black locks as Fareeha looks up at her. Angela couldn’t resist those eyes, but groans as the throbbing at her temple gets worse.

Somehow, Fareeha notices. She leaps up to yank the curtains shut, launching herself back into bed immediately after. The darkness is a welcome sight, or lack thereof, for Angela’s eyes, who giggles and settles down beside Fareeha.

“Did I… do anything I’ll regret last night?” It’s candid, it’s honest. Angela watches Fareeha opens her eyes as she shrugs off the grogginess to pay attention properly. 

“I wouldn’t say so, unless you’re worried about having embarrassed yourself with a, might I say, showstopping performance last night?”

“Mein Gott… That really happened then.”

“It did.” Fareeha sits up a little, cheek resting on her palm.

“Anything else?”

“Mm, no. Oh, right,” Fareeha laughs awkwardly as if it only just occurs to her that the two of them had just woken up in her bed, “ _ This. _ ”

“This.”

“You were drunk and so I thought it best that I make sure you come back somewhere safe. I would have slept on the sofa but I wasn’t really thinking straight and…” Fareeha tails off as she rubs the back of her neck, realising Angela’s sigh is one of relief. “First things first. Advil?”

“Gott,” Angela repeats, sinking into the pillows with a hand to her forehead. When Fareeha hesitates, she offers a smile, “Yes, please, that would be great.”

When she opens her eyes again, Fareeha stands over her with a glass of water and painkiller in the other hand. Angela knocks both back, one after the other, though her grimace doesn’t fade.

“If there’s anything else I can do…?”

“No, no, you’re too considerate, Fareeha. How can someone like you just - ugh.”

Fareeha didn’t know the reason for Angela’s frustration, so it was easy to mistake it for anything else. Not only that but the worries Angela had kept bottled up for days must be just about ready to burst at this point. Plainly put, neither did she know how badly Angela wanted to kiss her.

“I don’t understand.”

“Can we talk over coffee?”

Fareeha nods, letting Angela sit up and step past her into the living room.

Ten minutes of silence passes, Angela spending that time gazing out the raindrop spotted window and Fareeha brewing coffee and flicking through a photojournal with little interest. Conveniently for the both of them, it was a Sunday. Reinhardt had insisted Fareeha take the day off each week, no matter how much she tried to sway him. He told her she could use it to take pictures, or write. Read a little something new. Though she wasn’t nearly as hungover as the Swiss student all but lounging over the arm of her sofa, Fareeha wasn’t sure if she would be doing any of those things today.

As she comes to the end of the journal, Angela takes a sip from her coffee and clears her throat.

“I wanted to thank you for being so welcoming,” Angela begins, “No one but my father feels as much like family as you do.”

She rarely mentioned her parents. Fareeha knew she and her father were close, and when considering the issues she had to solve with her own mother, saw how they paled in comparison to what Angela must have dealt with.

Angela takes a breath.

“Last week was my mother’s death anniversary, and my work hasn’t been this bad since - well, I don’t know. My professors are demanding and I know my mother would want me to succeed so I  _ want _ to, more than anything but… Sorry.” The words rush out of her in a single breath and she tries to laugh, the sound cracking up in her throat. “I’m suddenly throwing all of this at you, okay, uhm.” 

Angela exhales slowly, gesturing with her hands when the words no longer come.

“Not even you can bear the whole world on your shoulders alone, ‘mar.”

“I’ve been alright this far…” Angela starts before Fareeha cuts her off.

“You don’t  _ have _ to carry the world alone.” Fareeha rests a hand on her knee and Angela starts at the unexpected contact. “You’ve been there for me, let me do the same for you.”

There was a lot more Angela hadn’t mentioned. For one, the tense relationship she had shared with her mother before her passing, built on exceedingly high expectations for the young girl Angela had once been; her academic performance well above average but seemingly never quite good enough for Mrs Ziegler. To exacerbate the situation, her current coursemates were anything but pleasant, though Angela didn’t know it was because they envied her intellect. All of this made retreating to the little bookshop she could call a home away from home all the more appealing. Angela realises that quality arose largely from being by Fareeha’s side. Family and home - funny that those things could be embodied by a single person.

“But Fareeha, you have been there for me. Every step of the way.”

Fareeha smiles tightly with warmth in her eyes, but is no longer sure what to say. Angela makes sure she doesn’t need to.

“Can I ask one more favour?”

“Of course.”

“Let me pretend none of that exists for just one morning.”

Fareeha finds her eyes reveal just as much as Angela’s when their gazes meet. A certain vulnerability is shared while one simultaneously feels as though they are intruding. Truly windows to the soul, Fareeha considers fleetingly. Her eyes crinkle when Angela’s thumb traces the hooked tail of the tattoo beneath her right eye and she cups Angela’s hand with her own when it rests against her cheek.

Fareeha turns her head to kiss the palm of Angela’s hand, a silent affirmation of the favour.

Coping was different for everyone; Fareeha knew this. A grief stricken father was coping, in one sense of the word, by throwing himself into his work. His daughter had mirrored him through her studies, then by denying the sheer magnitude they presented did she escape to the promise of warmth by a loved one’s side.

Threading a hand through that soft blonde hair the way she had wanted to for ages, Fareeha’s heart aches at the single tear that falls down Angela’s cheek. She catches it with another kiss and feels Angela’s smile, bittersweet by her own cheek.

They escape where their lips meet, soft and warm for the first time in what already felt like far too long. It’s a sigh of relief, like coming home after a stormy day in cramped lecture halls. It’s a fresh breath of air, like soaring free from the dark corner of a bookstore on the 76th street. And it’s far too brief, a testing of the water before plunging headfirst into the deep end. That’s what it feels like the second time. Yet, instead of sinking, Angela feels as though she is falling up, towards something brighter than yesterday’s problems.

They spend the morning pleasantly occupied, coffees growing cold and magazines forgotten on the table beside them. Three missed calls ring from the adjoining room, a plethora of text messages accompanying them, but it’s all background noise as far as anyone is concerned. Just like the rain. Distant and harmless, so long as they were side by side.

A little break from the pressures of daily life could do wonders.

Later, Fareeha would find her fingers wrote their own stories as soon as they touched the keyboard, itching to be accompanied by fresh photography. Angela could shrug off the cynical comments her peers would offer and her professors sat slack-jawed as she delivered a valedictorian-worthy speech the next day.

Somehow, Lena knew about everything.

“So,” the Brit practically sings, trotting up alongside Angela post-lecture, “A scarf, huh?”

“What of it?” Angela’s little smile reveals that it was more than just a fashion statement.

“Ohoho, I knew it. You’re shaggin’ Fareeha Amari! Bloody ‘ell, get in there, Ziegler!”

Angela splutters. “I’m doing no such thing!”

“As if,” Lena tugs on the scarf with a face splitting grin, “We all saw you go home together that night, though I don’t blame you. Hell, I would’ve if that’d been me.” Lena winks and Angela cheeks flush darker.

“We only slept together, and I mean only slept! There was nothing… sexual about it.” Why her voice hitches on that word she can’t say. She’s well in her twenties and no longer a stuttering first year student at university. Well, no longer a first year.

“But it’s romantic, innit.”

“I mean, it uh, I guess. It could be. Yes?”

Lena jumps up with a cheer, drawing the attention of a few other students for a moment. In a hushed whisper, she repeats the ‘yay’ earning a smile from Angela.

“I’m so happy for you two, Ange.”

Angela remembers the feeling of wrapping her arms around Fareeha’s waist as she rode on the back of the Egyptian’s motorbike back home that evening, resting her forehead against Fareeha’s back and feeling the wind in her hair. It wasn’t the first time Fareeha had given her a lift, but it was the first time she’d said goodbye with a kiss. If only it hadn’t been the night before her final speech, Angela would have invited her upstairs. They could celebrate the evening after, she had reasoned, though a pang of regret still threatened to interrupt her final revisions that night.

But it was as Lena said. She was romantically involved with Fareeha, and while that fact couldn’t fix the pains and struggles of living her life, Fareeha had made them all the more bearable.

Angela readjusts the same scarf she had worn to the cafe last week and her eyes do the smiling for her.

“Me too, Lena. Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it, the slow burn finally takes (f)light. Thank you everyone who stuck with my sporadic updates and I really hope you've enjoyed it ^^ I figured once a story hits its end, drawing it out longer doesn't really work - for me at least! Hmu if you'd like more pharmercy content though, it's a pleasure writing them :)


End file.
